


The Sweetest Absence

by Contraband



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alastair Being an Asshole, Alastair is a troll, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Creepy Alastair, Curious Dean, Dean in Hell, Demon Sex, Demon/Human Relationships, Dominance, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hell, Hell Fic, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Ownership, POV Dean Winchester, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Powerlessness, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Assault, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Sub Dean, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Torturer Dean, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contraband/pseuds/Contraband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of scenes following the bizarre fashion in which Alastair chooses to reel Dean in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Up for Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair first starts moving in on Dean in earnest, after he's been picking Dean apart for some years already.

There's a point at which the human nervous system can no longer differentiate between hot and cold. Apply a high enough temperature, and it can feel almost identical to dry ice. Lying there, all words were long since discarded -- the thought that what I was feeling was 'hot' didn't even occur to me. It didn't 'hurt,' either. It numbed. My brain was screaming, pressing against my skull in ways a brain never should. And all I could think was no. No, no, no. Not even the word. Just the sensation of this is wrong.

Then it became processable again, the pounding in my head started to recede, and I let out a whimper, expending what little was left of my breath. Things sifted back into focus, and I turned my head slowly. His fingertips still rested on my shoulder, but there was no longer any pain. It was the first full rest I had had in several days -- no fresh pain, from any source. Only old sores, and lack of clarity.

"You know how they say good and evil are co-dependent?" Alastair asked. The question proved to be rhetorical, as he continued within seconds. "The theory, of course, being that one cannot recognize evil as something distinct if they've never experienced the absence of it."

I coughed hoarsely and tried to sit up. He pressed his fingers against my shoulder, the tiniest of gestures for him, but I was crushed against the metal. Now the burning began again, and though it flowed from his fingertips, it soon wracked my entire body with raging waves, just short enough of blacking me out that I could process his next words. "The same thing's true of pain, you know."

Abruptly it lessened, and ice-cold fingers were trailing down my arm. He leaned closer, his breath against my ear. "It's not all bad -- because sometimes, just sometimes, you get to come up for air. And that," his fingers curled around my wrist and a shiver of something close to pleasure shot through me in a way I couldn't begin to come to terms with. "That," he whispered, "is the sweetest absence." He had never done this before -- I don't think it had ever occurred to me that he was capable of producing pleasure on whim. But the way I felt now, it wasn't natural. Of course, the whole situation was anything but natural, and my head was pretty scrambled.

That was about the time I blacked out. The switch was too sudden, the pain too precise, and my energy too low. The next thing I processed was an arm around my waist, and I was lifted to my feet. As my strength returned, I tried to tug away from him. He let me, only keeping contact with those ever-present fingers, now clamped around my wrist as firmly as iron.

"Afternoon stroll?" I croaked, wavering back and forth slightly. He automatically reached a hand up to steady me, and I hissed.

"Easy, Dean," he chuckled, something in his voice different -- warm. Cue suspicious step back on my part. But he countered, bringing us close enough that I was officially in panic mode. "We're not going anywhere. I just thought I'd get us on the same level for a second here." I could feel needles creeping in my chest where his palm rested, and my eyes met his. He raised an eyebrow, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "See, here's the thing," he said as my legs met the table behind me in my attempt to back up further. "We need to have a little talk."

Around us the scenery shifted chaotically. The previous setting of a sterile white room was wavering, giving way to a more natural landscape... a particularly sharp jab near my heart jolted my attention back to Alastair, who looked just slightly irritated. His eyes were getting darker. "All of this, all you've gone through, all you've learned," his voice was barely a growl, and he leaned closer, pressing against me in ways that I wish had only been painful. "It doesn't have to be a waste, Dean."

I drew in a deep breath, startled to smell leather and stale beer. Where had that come from? I tried to push him away, but my strength was nothing to him. "It's not a waste, you're right. Because Sammy's alive."

This answer didn't exactly thrill him, and as quick as things had spiraled into territory things should never spiral into, he was retreating, and the world leveled out again, more or less. Emboldened, I continued, "I've been down here a while now, yeah. And it's not exactly Disney Land. But I haven't forgotten why I'm here, and I'd rather be here any day than know that Sammy was."

"That's a nice little speech," Alastair's expression was unreadable. I expected another jolt of pain any second, but he just turned away, and waved a hand. "Tomorrow, then. Bright and early."


	2. Days of Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastair has a chat with Dean after his work day's complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight time-skip from last chapter.

Sometimes my subconscious declares war without acknowledgement. It is the reason there are phrases in society such as "choosing the lesser of two evils," or being "between the devil and the deep blue sea." Sometimes morality has no place in decision making. As a human, my mind is built to favor survival, even if that means doing unspeakable things. Even if I hate my existence afterwards, I'll keep it right on going, because my biological makeup insists that I should. It makes sense, then, that given the choice between drowning in the deep, and facing the devil, I'd take my chances with the latter. Because even the devil has his days of mercy.

Things become less clear still when I am unaware of the crossroads before me. There are corners of my mind that make choices without any conscious process, options that I don't understand why I favor. This was one of those times, and he was one of those options.

I was finished for the day. The relief the last one felt poured into me as well, and I reveled momentarily in the tremors of life as he regained true consciousness. Of all the souls I tended to target, the easiest were the young ones. The ones that still felt some measure of hope, and revitalization when they were permitted to breathe again. The older souls, the ones like me -- the ones who had been dragged through broken glass one too many times ... they were much more difficult to face.

I turned away, ready to find some dark corner for a much needed rest. But Alastair was still there, leaning against the door-frame, a pensive expression casting him deceivingly human. The room around us did not waver, and I realized that whatever my intentions had been, he still had unfinished business. "I'll... leave you to it, then?" The question was one of permission, not confirmation.

He raised an eyebrow, and a small smile started to form, in slow motion. I noted his amusement more by the flickering of his eyes than anything else. "Where's the fire? Take off your coat and stay a while, Dean." Alastair strolled across the white tiled floor, crossing the distance between us somehow quickly, and yet with nonchalance. Behind me I could hear the quiet breathing of my latest subject -- his name lost to the years -- and I could sense the fear rising in him.

"Where isn't the fire?" I muttered, but I mentally willed my posture to relax, refusing to allow the delay to key me up. Alastair considerately thought up a couple of bar stools, and we sat. I added this to the ever-growing mental log I kept of his taste in environments. Part of me thought that some day maybe I could piece together where he was from, and who he really was, if I paid enough attention to the clues.

Alastair continued his interior decorating spree, thinking a table between us, changing the floor to a dark green tiling, and in one swoop transporting us to a night club I'd visited several weeks before my demise. For whatever reason, he left the soul and his chains. I decided not to dwell on that, focusing instead on the subtext he was obviously throwing at me. "Okay, so... what's up?" The question nearly caught in my throat, nerves suddenly on high alert. Something in his eyes had shifted. In my peripheral vision I could see the soul straining at his chains, trying to increase the distance between himself and Alastair.

"Oh, you know how it is. All work and no play," Alastair smiled sardonically. "I thought you might like a drink-" at his words a tall beer appeared by my hand, "and a sit-down." He watched me expectantly until I took a small sip. It was cool, and wonderful, and I closed my eyes for a second. I knew it was only marginally real, but hell if I cared. Then he continued. "I was hoping to catch you unoccupied -- you've been quite the diligent worker. I was beginning to worry I'd have to book an appointment with your secretary."

"You know you can have my full attention any time, Alastair," I felt the layers of meaning settle uncomfortably between us, and looked away, staring at the tiled floor. The lighting was reflected in it: pale yellow electric candles that flickered soothingly. Why had he put us here? I took another swig of beer. "What do you want?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean." He traced the edge of the table with a finger, studying its surface with apparent interest. "Does there always have to be a reason?"

My eyes narrowed. "No, but you do always have one."

Alastair looked up, his white eyes meeting mine with burning intensity. "True that may be. Maybe this time I should let it sleep... I wouldn't want to make you feel devalued." A playful glint made his entire essence light up, just for an instant, and then he settled, becoming more human again. "Do you know where we are?"

"Of course," I sighed, glancing around the poor reconstruction. "I hooked up here before... before I met you." Somehow it had become poisonous to say "before I died," or anything resembling the words. I raised an eyebrow. "I'll bite. Why here?"

He practically purred. "Why not? Apparently it's a good place to get laid." 

The shift of gears in my brain was instantaneous. The rest of the beer disappeared rather quickly, and the door was looking more and more friendly. I looked toward the soul we'd left mercifully alone, and noted with a degree of gratitude that he was no longer part of the scenery. Of course, that probably meant Alastair had sent the unfortunate idiot somewhere decidedly less neutral. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, and all that. My mind was racing, thoughts darting around in a way I hated to acknowledge. He had me nervous, all because of two words. Two words that I decided right then should never be heard from his mouth. "Use words, and use them fast," I managed.

Alastair smiled wolfishly, and when he next spoke, each word dripped with honey. "I own you. You entertain me. It would be amazing."


	3. Vintage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean is left to his own devices for two damn seconds.

Alastair could make Hell look more or less however he wanted for the people in it. Sure, there were things he couldn't change, but overall, he was a god. I'd seen him create a lot of scenes in our time together, and I'd experienced all too often suddenly being plunged under 50 feet of water, deeper and deeper, into an ocean that suddenly appeared, or being hurled into a pit of rocks and glass, with snakes slithering around. I'd been crucified like Jesus, and even torn apart by crocodiles. Laugh at the strange choice if you want, it wasn't fun.

But in all the time we'd been together, I'd only seen a handful of environments crafted by his mind that were specifically intended for comfort. Sure, I'd seen him pull up a chair for himself, or even a scene like that night club stunt, when he wanted to make a point. Still, by and large, most of his skill was put into new ways to hurt his charges, and I think he branched so far out only because he was bored, and wanted a day off from the real work. Most of the times I'd been tossed to animals were for entertainment, of himself, and his fellow demons. So, tonight, or as much of a night as there was in a place with no finite sun or moon, when he whisked away the club into nothingness again, I didn't expect anything nice to replace the room.

He just stepped closer, and reached towards me. I braced myself, but he only set the palm of his hand in the crook of my back, and said "Come on." I was mildly terrified, of what was expected from me, but part of me suspected this wasn't even really about sex. It never had been before with him -- not concretely, anyway. Yeah, there'd been a touch here, a straying finger there, a lingering for longer than anyone could account for. But he'd never done anything, and if he'd wanted to, he easily could have. So why now? I walked in pace with him, his hand still on me, and we headed through the dark, rocky, sweltering heat of Hell in its unaltered state. I wanted him to stop touching me, now. Even through my two shirts, his hand was cold. They weren't always... I wondered if it was intentional.

We walked quite a while in silence, which had never suited me that great when there was obviously a topic being avoided. If I was the one avoiding it? Fine, great. But when someone else was hiding something, or refusing to explain... well, that was just annoying, and in this case not a little intimidating. He took me to a place he'd never shown me before. It was an enclosure, with high silver walls, and a gate that looked like it belonged in World of Warcraft or some shit. He glanced at it and it opened. Then we were inside.

As I walked in, I looked around, feet dragging a little. Hell was, well, hell, but sometimes it reminded me more of Wonderland, with the way things changed around, or turned upside-down, and nothing ever quite fit the laws of physics. Especially if Alastor had had at it. He liked altering things for the sake of it, and this... place... was no exception. From the outside, it had appeared open at the top, like a small courtyard, but once inside, I was looking at the entry hall into what seemed to me to be a very classy 1920's house. 

"Stuck-up vintage prick," I muttered, stepping out from his arm at last.

He let me, cocking his head. "It's different for everyone," he said, with a smile just like when he watched people dig their own very literal graves. "This isn't my house. It's yours. For tonight, that is."

Ears burning slightly, I looked around a little more closely, trying to find something to focus on other than him. I felt very vulnerable, with his white eyes on me. Then he spoke again. "I'll let you wander for a bit. If you want anything, I'll be upstairs."

I resolved right then not to go upstairs at all. Let him sit up there. As long as he was staying put, I was going to take advantage of the peace. He disappeared then, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. _What now?_ Panic was mounting quick in my chest and I swallowed it down, stepping further into the hall, and peering around the first doorway, on the left. It led into a warm parlor area with a fireplace, and a sofa that looked amazingly welcoming just now. But I was too restless, so I moved on. Books on the mantle: several encyclopedias, a gun collector's manual, and a survival tips compilation. "Okay."

I paced around the room for a little bit, not really feeling up to looking around more. The problem with having lots of nervous energy is, you have to keep moving, even when that's exactly what's making you nervous. I _wanted_ to hold very very still, and curl in a quiet corner somewhere, and hope he would lose interest. Assuming he was still interested now. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he just brought me here because he knew I'd stew, and freak, and do what I was doing. I grabbed the gun book from the mantle, and curled up on one side of the sofa with a "fuck it." I wasn't going to go creeping through the house like some tiny mouse, looking over my shoulder every two seconds. Might as well act comfortable, even if I wasn't.

My eyes glanced over the pages, but I thought about what Alastair had said... _This isn't my house._ Did that mean he was unfamiliar? He had known there was an upstairs to go to. I couldn't imagine Alastair in a place he didn't have control of. _It's yours._ If this place was what I wanted in a house.... I sat up, closing the book. Curiosity set in -- delayed yes, but the heavier for it. If this was my house, based on what I wanted, there should definitely be certain things in it. I struck out in search of the kitchen.

What I found first though, was a closed off room with a an unassuming dark wood door. It was locked. I narrowed my eyes. Something told me I didn't want to go in there. But it was _locked_ , which made it practically begging to be investigated. Still, Alastair knew better than anyone that my curiosity was impossibly high. If he were going to screw me over, this is how I'd do it. Put something nasty, deadly, painful, and humiliating behind that door. I sighed, and began searching my pockets for something to pick the lock with. It was still a better possibility than going upstairs, after all, and at least it was something to keep me occupied.

My fingers hit warm metal in my pocket, and I extracted a small key. "Huh." I blinked, then tried the lock -- it fit perfectly, and the door swung open with a soft click and silence. Good hinges.


	4. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pants are dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: this chapter contains overt rape.

At first I didn't see anything. Or at least, nothing helpful. The room was dark, with a soft blue glow coming from the far end of what I guessed to be a room about the size of a typical master bedroom. The observation didn't comfort me. I felt half-heartedly along the wall by the doorway for a lightswitch, knowing there wouldn't be one. 

Reading my thoughts, the room suddenly glowed brighter. The blue was coming from a strange, floating iridescent ball, about the size of a soccer ball, which was positioned just over a wooden side-table, which, as side-tables tend to, stood beside a very large, very old-fashioned looking, canopied bed. Great.

The bed was empty, as the room seemed to be. I stepped into it a little further, muscles tremoring with anticipation of being jumped. Or shocked. Or burnt. Or shot. Or something. Anything. But nothing happened, and I eventually moved to the bed. I tested it with one hand absently. Comfy. Hm. It might be nice to rest. If I could even for a heartbeat believe I'd be allowed to. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept in a real bed. I doubted this was an opportunity.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a thin trail of smoke, barely noticeable, wafting into the center of the room, from the corner opposite the side-table. I blinked, squinting in the dim light. The smoke billowed, tinged with the soft blue around it, and from behind the wisps, a form began to solidify. Alistair was leaning against the wall, a cigarette held delicately between slender fingers, decorated in silver rings. He smiled, looking bizarrely human, in distressed blue jeans like I might wear myself, a fitting V-neck T-shirt and a light black leather jacket. For a second I stood stupidly, taking all of this in, while he stared back, his focus cat-like.

"Humans can never resist a good closed door," he practically purred.

I didn't move, but my shoulders relaxed, and I let out a slow breath. There hadn't been any flashes of light or sudden searing pains, so that was good. But more or less, we were once again where I knew we were always lined up to be. In a room together, alone, him gloating, me apprehensive of everything to follow.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips, taking a long, slow drag. His hand dropped, and smoke poured from his nostrils, like an angry bull, but far, far too elegant. I hadn't known doing that _could_ look classy, but he always managed. He didn't speak again.

Unsure without a cue, I approached. His smile this time was decidedly inhuman, but I didn't falter, coming to stand about two feet in front of him. He blew smoke in my face, and I blinked against it. Menthol.

"So, I'm here. You're here. What happened to being upstairs?" I watched as he turned one of his rings idly on its finger, slow rotations. My eyes trailed up along his arm, gently framed with cigarette smoke, wisping and dancing around well-toned wrist and jutting veins. Sometimes he had tattoos, sometimes he didn't. Tonight he did. A writhing mountain lion, multiple wounds oozing red blood, stark against his pale skin, its jaws wide in a mute yowl.

"I _was_ upstairs," he raised an eyebrow. "But you opened my door. What's a man to do?"

_Man._ The word was strange. I supposed he was, in a way. But in every other way, he was as far from it as they came. "I know you're smart enough to have expected my appearance here. So tell me, Dean. . . does your opening that door not indicate you wanted to talk?"

"You said yourself," I drawled, staring at where his silk dress shirt's sleeve wrinkled slightly at the elbow, rolled carelessly. "Sometimes us humans just can't resist getting in where we shouldn't be."

His arm reached for mine. I didn't react. His hand touched my wrist, ran up my arm, paused on my bicep. His grip tightened. "Dean. You've been evading me lately. Why? Don't you remember? You report to me. You answer to me."

I shrugged, trying to sound cockier than my racing heart when I spoke again. "I guess I missed the part of the job description where it said that meant no downtime ever. Should I eat my lunches with you too?"

I knew I'd been spending a lot of time wandering the plains alone, doing jobs that were, not technically, assigned to me. I tore up who I pleased, when I pleased, and felt the flames around my skin with pleasure that comes only from running feral, answering to no one. That wasn't great for our relationship, or my insides, as I was sure I'd be finding out shortly. But damn it, I was sick of telling him every time I had to piss.

For a while he didn't answer. His hand just kept moving, to my neck now, those long fingers curling around the scruff, clutching, nails digging. He pulled me closer, our faces inches apart, his eyes forcing mine to meet him. My breath caught as his streamed out in hot smoke. 

When he spoke, his voice was cold and menacing. "You will remember your place. Whether that's at my side while I work, in my lap at dinner, or on your knees now."

Blood roared in my ears and my heart skipped a beat. Part of me was thrashing wildly, wanting to rip into him, tear his ears off, poke his damn eyes out, shove them down his throat. And part of me knew I'd never stand a chance. That resigned shred of me, however weak and battered, somehow overcame the raging monster. That shred was linked with titanium chain to Alistair's hands, borrowing strength from the very being I wanted most to murder. Still, the Winchester in me, the hunter, the human, wouldn't move.

His fingers dug, and I felt wet warmth. Blood. My neck stung with fire, and I clenched my jaw, my eyes steeled, drilling into his with as much hatred as I could muster. However we might have gotten by in the last however long, in this moment, all I wanted was for him to implode. My knees buckled under the weight of his demonic force, my spine wrenching with the effort to stay on my feet. It was no use, but still I fought, all the way to the floor.

Knees hit hardwood, and I groaned. Unconciously, I'd reached to steady myself against him on the way down, hands on his thighs. His hand moved to my hair. It was too short to really sink into, but he managed, yanking short strands, pulling my head back to look at him again. All the earlier defiance was gone now, leaving cold, shaky emptiness in my veins, adrenaline stores shot. Suddenly it was the most terrible thing I could imagine to meet his eyes again from the ground.

Reading my mind, he growled, "Look at me."

I peered at him from under my eyelashes, not daring to look full-on. Resentment broiled in my belly, blurring my vision with white patches.

"You are only able to roam free because I have permitted it. You are only able to stand because I allow it," his words hissed, and at first I was startled when his free hand lifted, expecting it to connect with my face any second now. But then I realized he was just taking another drag. "The length I've added to your leash can be retracted very easily. You belong to me, Dean Winchester, and you don't breathe without my say-so."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep myself in check, mind reeling with bloody images and sharp objects. "I know," I managed to grate the words between my teeth.

He pulled my head back more, forcing me to either stare him in the face, or look at the ceiling. I chose the point right between his eyes, where I promised myself some day I'd stick a scalpel. Or maybe an icepick.

Two words, crisp like winter's first snow. "Show me."

If I thought my discomfort was bad before, it was choking me now, my veins curling in on themselves, shriveling, every sense in me thrumming with overload like the static on a television with exactly no channels. And out of that panic surfaced an inferno-forged calm. I knew it well, from decades of hunting: the calloused nothingness that had saved me every time I'd faced things too awful to admit to. 

My hands, still on his thighs, moved, mechanically, to the waist of his jeans, and I felt him release his iron grip in the roots of my hair. I tilted my head forward, to rest against his inner thigh. He was warm, taut, and, as with most demons, there was an intoxicating force linked to proximity with him. This was strengthened by the years I'd spent 'in my place,' at his side, watching him rip people just like me into shreds, being groomed as his right-hand man. Now his right hand stroked my hair, almost gently, and he whispered, "Good."

I kissed denim, tracing the ridge of his jeans with my fingers, moving to undo the button, the fly. I scooted back, just a little, so that I could see better as I started to work the heavy fabric away from his hips. His hand left my head, and I registered in my peripheral vision as he flicked his wrist. He was now barefoot, shirt undone. He wasn't holding the cigarette any more either. He didn't help with the pants though. Apparently I was doing that part just fine.

"Alistair. . ." I said quietly, not sure where I thought I could go with this forming objection.

"Keep going," he responded. They shouldn't have, but somehow the words reassured me. I should have been indignant, outraged, ashamed. But the calm that was slowly taking me over solidified with his go-ahead, and then his jeans were down. Another wave and they were gone. And boxers with them. Damn.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen him, but it was the first time this close, this. . . intimate. Again, I know it shouldn't have felt like this, but something about the quiet of the room, not feeling rushed, it really made the clock start mid-tick, and all I could do was take him in. Now I looked him over thoroughly, drinking him in, from his currently salt-and-pepper hair, combed elegantly in a sweeping style that reminded me of the 40's, to his angular shoulders, toned arms, tight chest and abdomen, sharp hips, muscular thighs, to his rock-hard cock. He was a work of art, no arguing that. At least when he wanted to be.

He took the infintesimal step forward it took for my face to touch him. "Keep. Going," he said again. "Show me you genuinely understand what it means to be my possession, Dean."

A quiet whine escaped my lips, and I kissed along him, hands gripping his hips for stability as I began lapping at the tip of his cock, tongue tracing the slit. The nothingness I'd been relying on was subsiding again, a quick-switch track heading for a shaking wreck if I didn't keep it together somehow. Replacing the apathy was a new, much more primal feeling. I took about an inch into my mouth, licking, sucking, moaning, the only sound in the room as he stood, a perfect statue.

I had always associated the word primal previously with dominant behavior. Fucking some girl whose name I didn't know into a mattress while she yelled exaggerated "fuck yeah, baby"s. Pulling hair, clawing my nails down that ex-marine's back in the corner of a dimlit bar. Biting, bruising, fighting for control. In this moment, in this blue-tinged room, I realized there was nothing about what I was doing that wasn't primal. An instinctual hunger roared from inside me, begging for him to control me, push me, hurt me, take me, fuck me, own me. All I could process with my mouth around him was how incredibly hard he was, how thick, and how much I needed him inside me.

He was rocking back and forth, just enough to give that extra push against the back of my throat with each stroke as I swallowed him whole. I summoned everything I'd ever learned from blowjobs, given and received, desperate to give him all I had to offer. A minute ago, I would have thought of nothing but clamping my teeth down, but now. Now I knew my place, and urgently needed to know it was secure.

"That's it, Dean. Good boy," he murmured, both hands back in my hair, pulling himself deeper. "Good."

My jaw was beginning to hurt from being forced so thoroughly open, filled and still wanting. My throat felt raw, and I was fighting back my gag reflex with every thrust, but I kept bobbing my head, tongue making figure eights against him as he filled my mouth with searing hot cum. I coughed as he pushed my face away, and the salty liquid spilled from my lips, down my chin, onto my shirt-front. It was still leaking from him in short bursts, and despite being dismissed, I craned to lap it from him, feeling possessed with unnatural hunger.

In the blink of an eye, he snapped his fingers and he was clothed again. In another blink, the blue orb to our right disappeared. Then the room itself was pulled out from under my knees, which I only realized now were aching. I collapsed in a ball on the ground, swallowing away the scratch of use in my throat, and my tongue traced the roof of my mouth, savoring the strong flavor of sex. "You will not forget me again," Alistair's voice, eerie in the emptiness, was close to my ear.

I only knew when he disappeared because the very tangible feel of his gaze on me evaporated. I lay there in the dark nothingness for some time after, cum-stained shirt cooling, breathing slowing, eyes heavy, stomach turning.


End file.
